Shoebox full of memories
by MissSlothy
Summary: Steve has a shoebox full of memories.
1. The photo

Steve's not always good with words. But actions he doesn't struggle with quite as much.

So Danny's learnt that sometimes it's better just to watch him rather than just listen. Or talk.

He's watching when Steve suddenly stills while reading an old magazine in the waiting area at the hospital (which they've ended up in – again). And he notices when Steve surreptitiously rips out the page then stuffs it in the pocket of his pants.

He detects his partner's sudden change of mood, observes the way his fingers worry all day at the paper in his pocket, now neatly folded into four.

Steve's mood is introspective for the rest of day, barely acknowledging his friends around him. So this is why after a long day at work he's letting himself into his partner's house with a six pack of beer and a pizza, his instincts telling him something is wrong.

What he sees is Steve sitting at the kitchen table, an open shoe box is in front of him. There's a beer in his hand, seemingly forgotten, as he stares at the torn out magazine page. Steve acknowledges him with a sigh, handing over the page he's been reading.

It's an obituary, Danny notes, for a doctor who was killed while working in Afghanistan for Medecins Sans Frontieres. The accompanying picture shows a young woman with intelligent blue eyes, her smile shining out from the page.

Now Steve's routing through the shoebox. It's full of random keepsakes Danny notes: letters and photos, old coins and a single key. Even a little rag doll which Steve moves carefully out of the way before finding what he needs.

Danny inhales sharply as he looks closely at the photo Steve's now handing him. It's a much younger version of his partner and the woman from the magazine, wrapped in each other's arms as they pose in front of the Eiffel Tower.

They look ecstatically happy, the ring on her left hand sparkling in the sunlight.


	2. The rag doll

He's twenty four when he meets her, just a few weeks into his first posting to Afghanistan. It's been an intense adrenaline fuelled, pulse racing, exhilarating ride since he got here. It's everything he's been training for and he's relishing every challenge it brings.

So he feels a little disappointed when he's told his next 'mission' is to travel to a refugee camp to check the validity of some Intel they've received.

When he reflects on the moment nearly fifteen years later he realises it's this sense of disappointment that makes him behave like a total jerk at their first meeting. That and the fact that he's young and supremely confident of himself and his abilities. It's not a winning combination.

She's attractive, he thinks vaguely, when she meets him at security entrance to the camp. A blond curl of hair has escaped from under the scarf she has draped over her head, the paleness of the scarf contrasting sharply with her heat flushed skin. He resists the urge to wipe away the sweat that is pooling under his helmet and stands to attention as he introduces himself.

"Lieutenant McGarrett, I'm here to talk to the civilians about-"

That's all he gets out before she's standing toe to toe with him, her blue eyes flashing angrily. "Civilians? Is that what you call them in your briefings?"

He can't remember the last time someone who wasn't a superior officer went toe to toe with him. And certainly not a female civilian. Usually if he tells them what he does for a living they fall at his feet. There's a bit of him that finds it embarrassing but his ego usually overrules common sense.

He feels the first warm curl of attraction deep in his gut. It seems his ego likes angry, blue eyed English women (at least that's what he thinks the accent is).

"Ma'am-"

"They are refugees, Lieutenant." Taking a breath she scans him, head to toe. "How long have you been here?"

He's not sure he should tell her. But he finds he can't stop himself. "Three weeks, ma'am."

"Don't ma'am me. I'm not a member of the military. My name is Anna Gillespie, Medicins Sans Frontieres."

"Ms Gillespie." He offers her a hand and his best smile. It falters as she nods and begins walking into the camp, leaving him no choice but to follow. "Thank you for agreeing to help. This information could be very important to national security."

She glares at him over her shoulder. "What about their security?"

"Excuse me?"

"These people have witnessed unspeakable acts of violence, Lieutenant. They've lost everything and it's our job to protect them."

Her words cut surprisingly deep. "Ma'am, that's my job too."

She considers him for a moment, her expression unreadable. "No. Your job is to protect your country. What happens when that means you can't protect them?"

His eyes follow as she points towards a row of shelters. There are small groups of people sat outside, men, women and children. He's attended classes about the trauma of war. Hell, he's suffered loss and violence in his life: there's a nightmare that he sometimes still suffers that features his mother's last moments. But it's obvious the families around him have suffered much, much worse.

To his relief she's started walking again, not waiting for his answer.

"I've spoken to the Director," she continues, heading towards the first shelter. "We're not happy you're here but we'll let you meet the families. But I have to ask the questions."

Resisting the urge to grab her and stop her marching away, he lengthens his own stride and plants himself firmly in her way, drawing himself up to his full six-foot height. "My orders-"

"I know the rules, Lieutenant. And right now I don't have to do what you say."

She's at least half-a-foot shorter than him he notices, as he peers down his nose at her. And she's probably only a year or two older than him. His ego perks up again and he nudges it back down. He's always had a thing for shorter women, it's brings out the protective side of him.

Not that she needs protecting right now.

Confusingly he finds that even more attractive and he finds himself stepping back, hands held high. "Okay. We'll do it your way."

When they enter the first shelter and she introduces him to the families he's glad he let her take the lead. He's been studying Pashto and he knows enough to get by but he'd been stupidly naive to think he could have done this on his own.

Anna's talking to the families quietly, asking after each of them in turn. The adults gradually relax, their closed expressions turning grateful at the interest she's showing. Only the children aren't responding, hiding behind their parents.

"Stop staring. You're scaring them."

He jolts as she leans over to whisper to him. Embarrassed, he fumbles to take off his helmet and put it in his lap. He knows it's not regulation to take it off but it's an instinctive reaction. These people may not have much apart from a few rugs and the clothes they are standing in but suddenly he feels like he's invading their home.

He nods respectfully, awkwardly tucking his legs into a crossed position as he gets comfortable on the rug. Pulling his notes from pocket he feels his face flush as Anna gives an approving nod.

They work their way through the questions and he focuses on taking notes. He's so focused he doesn't notice that one of the children, a very young girl, has sidled towards him and is now sitting a hands breath away. Caught, the little girl freezes, her wide eyes inquisitively staring at him. Staring back he realises his training didn't prepare him for this.

"Here, take this." Anna's pulling something out of her pocket and as she hands it over he realises it's a rag doll. Dirty and worn it's obvious it's seen better days. The little girl's eyes light up though and he hands it over, unable to stifle a smile as she cuddles up to his leg, the doll clutched tightly in her hands.

Suddenly he has a very clear memory of Mary stretched out on their couch at home, playing with her dolls, their Mom sitting next to her, while he's sitting on the floor watching TV. It's vivid, so real. The raw feeling of loss flashes up and grabs him before he can even blink.

"McGarrett?"

Anna's calling his name gently, like she's said it several times before. With an effort he pulls himself back to the present, noting with a sinking heart the looks of sympathy he's getting from everyone in the tent. He's pretty sure he didn't say anything so he hates to think what his face looks like. Drawing on all his military training he takes a deep breath, sits up straight and tells Anna the next question.

It's not until after they've finished the questioning and they're heading back to the checkpoint that he realises he's left the doll behind. Anna just shakes her head when he tells her. "Don't worry, I can always get another one."

"Are you sure? If you want-"

"Really, it's fine."

They stand silently for a moment, just looking at each other. He feels like she can see straight through him though and he forces himself not to bolt. For some insane reason her approval has become important to him. So when she smiles at him it's like the weight of the world has lifted off his shoulders and he gives her a big grin back.

/ooooooooooooo

It's the memory of her smile that keeps him going through the next four incredibly gruelling weeks. But it's the little girl's face he's thinking of when he finds himself buying three Turkish rag dolls from the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul during a week's R&R later that month. As the store owner starts to individually wrap them in brightly coloured paper, with gold ribbon to match, he wonders if he has lost all common sense. There's actually no guarantee that he'll meet Anna again. But he puts them in the bottom of his kit bag and keeps them just in case.

His chance comes several weeks later. Queuing in the mess hall he spots a familiar face. He moves before he even realises what he's doing, running back to his billet and grabbing the packages. It's not until he's back in the mess hall and heading for her table that he realises he should have kept the presents in a bag. The brightly coloured wrapping is gaining him attention, the personnel around him always eager for a distraction in the tedium of their day.

Gritting his teeth he approaches her table. He can't help thinking he's about to crash and burn in front of hundreds of people. He's survived SEAL training he reminds himself. Nothing can be worse than that.

She's confused as he sticks his hand out to her but she catches up quickly, sticking her hand out in return. "We haven't been introduced properly. I'm Steve McGarrett."

"Pleased to meet you, Steve." The beautiful grin he remembers is back and his heart does a little flip flop. "Are those for me?"

/ooooooooooooooooo

"Did she like them?"

He takes a long draw on his beer before looking up at his partner. Danny's taken the rag doll out of the shoebox and is holding it, almost reverently. "She loved them," he explains, the memory making him smile. "But she only wanted one. She thought I should keep one, thought maybe I would need it some day."

He watches his friend as he considers that statement. "I dunno, Babe. It's kind of a strange image, a badass Navy Seal carrying around a rag doll." Carefully straightening her clothes he places her back in the box. "She looks like she's seen some action."

"She has." He hadn't taken her everywhere. Danny's right, that would have just been too weird. But she's travelled places with him. And sometimes she's just acted as a reminder of what he was doing it all for.

"So where's the other one?"

"The third doll?" He let's out a small huff of laughter. "I sent it to Mary." Danny's answering laughter lifts some of the sadness he's feeling. He reaches into the shoebox and pulls out a photo.

Danny snorts beer out of his nose when he sees it.

He hadn't been sure when he'd sent the gift that Mary would understand, that there were memories attached to it that only they had now. She'd understood instantly of course. It was a sobering reminder that he should speak to his sister more often.

The photo is a close up of the doll he sent her - or at least it slightly resembles it. The doll he'd bought had worn a bright pink dress and white hat, some sort of Turkish national dress. Now it looks like an Alice Cooper wannabe with painted nails, a black dress and perfectly applied Goth eye makeup. Even the poor doll looks stunned at the transformation.

Flicking the photo over he shows Danny the big red heart on the back. It's slightly smudged, the bright red lipstick used to draw it wearing with age. Underneath, in big blocky, lipstick writing his sister has added:

Mom would love it. XXX

He stares at the writing for a while, lost in thought. Vaguely he's aware of Danny moving around the kitchen but he's doesn't stir until a plate with pizza appears in his line of vision. Putting the picture back in the shoebox he smiles his thanks but pushes the plate away. He's not hungry, his mind too engrossed in his memories.

"So what else have you got in here?" Danny asks quietly, nudging the box with his fork.


End file.
